Aunt Carol is coming this weekend, and the house has rearranged itself around the fact of it like a body bracing for impact.
My mom spent all of yesterday evening cleaning things that were already clean, wiping down counters that had been wiped an hour before, rehanging a picture frame in the hallway that was perfectly level to begin with. I watched her do it and understood, with a kind of ache I didn't expect, that she's scared. Really scared. Not performing worry the way people sometimes do — actually lying awake over the idea that one weekend, one bad impression, could be the thing that unravels something she's only just allowed herself to believe in.
I can't be the reason that happens. I decided that somewhere around midnight, staring at my ceiling, replaying Greg's face in the doorw
